


Sistine

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Daddy Issues, Dean in Hell, Gen, Hell, Horror, POV Alastair, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Torturer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is Alistair's Sistine Chapel, and this is his unveiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sistine

"You shouldn't be here."

And they both say it, at first--that's the rub. That's what makes this moment...truly great. One of Alistair's very proudest, if not the most. Because Dean--Dean Winchester is Alistair's Sistine Chapel, and this is his unveiling.

"You shouldn't be here," gasps John, which is impressive, given the state of his tongue and his throat and even his lungs.

Dean leans in close, brushes rough hands across John's chest. He stops above the heart, and Alistair watches as Dean learns his first trick.

John Winchester is whole again. (His body is whole.) He repeats, "You shouldn't be here." And broken record that this family is, Alistair can't say he's overly surprised. He so rarely is.

Ah, but _Dean._ There's a reason he's the Sistine Chapel. There are things about Dean Winchester that not even Alistair's creativity could have fostered in him.

Dean leans in close, until his lips scrape against the stubble of John's jaw and he whispers, "I know."

 _I know._ Alistair's a particular sort--exacting with his fineries (blood brandy, only from Poland, and only will the blood of pregnant mothers, that sort of thing) but Dean's voice. Dean's voice is music. Low, raw. Guttural. He is speaking with every fiber of his being, reveling in the wholeness of his form, the painlessness of it all. He speaks with the love of power, of domination, of revenge. Gross demonic pleasure--and yet every word is bell-clear. Unmistakable.

_I know._

His daddy says nothing. But in his eyes, in his lymph nodes, in every tissue, every cell--Alistair can feel him breaking. Because there is something about Dean that is just _so much more real_ than Alistair could have ever managed alone, with paltry tools like illusion and memory at his disposal.

Dean is real, and Dean is in Hell, and Dean picks up that knife and holds it against John's throat and through it all, not _once_ does his gaze leave daddy dearest's naked body and--honestly? It's a little overwhelming.

Alistair smiles so wide the seams of his lips split and the very walls of Hell join him in his laughter. Warm. Welcoming. "And so the sins of the father shall not be vested upon the son," he begins. He recites. He _sings._ "The son will have his justice."

Dean ignores him. "You know, lying there, eating my own entrails, choking on my kidneys--I thought it'd be hard. I thought... that this would break me, I really did. And I thought... that if I broke, at least it'd be over. At least--" and he laughs (and the chorus of Hell laughs with him). "I'd be too far gone to even fucking care. But that's not it."

Visible relief in those shoulders. A tremor ripples from his brows to his nose to his lips to his throat. Gorgeous, Dean. The detail, really. This is something Alistair could study. He may be prime inquisitor, but he will never know a human's wrath as humans do. _Absolutely_ gorgeous. "That's not it at all." And there's that voice again. Like the music of angels. --Or, well.

Alistair knows what he means.

"You love your father, Dean." A reminder. A test. 

Dean Winchester passes with flying colors. "I know. I do, I _know_. That's why--I'm here. Because of _you_ "--knife at John's throat, black against pale white skin--"Because of _Sammy_ "--and down to his pelvis, one neat line. "That's why I'm here."

Dean laughs. It's the music of fucking fallen angels, it really is. Alistair swells with pride. "I _know_ that's how I landed my ass in Hell, and I _still_ love you. It doesn't even matter."

Ah, love. The one thing Hell cannot break. That's what makes Dean Winchester so fantastic. He can do something even better.

"It doesn't even matter." And Dean takes that knife, and he _twists_ , drags, hacks, skins flesh from fat. He rakes his fingers through John's belly and catches hair and veins and bile under his fingernails.

And he stabs again, and again, and again. Digs until John is inside-out and backwards, breathing through his tibia and sobbing with his liver. "I love you." Dean's words _alone_ cut John's remaining flesh to ribbons, and Alistair admires the fountain Dean's made of John's arteries.

"And it doesn't even fucking matter." _Because this is still Hell._

Dean twists the knife in deeper. The righteous man spills a river of blood so potent it makes the very gates of Hell sing.

Alistair is very proud. (And so is Dean.)


End file.
